


Mistletoe

by i_ship_an_armada



Series: Inevitable [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Captain Flint is a Stubborn Shit, Christmas, First Kiss, Flint has hair, Fluff and Angst, John Silver is a Little Shit, M/M, Snow, i guess?, somewhere around s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 04:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada
Summary: It is Christmas time in the colonies, the boys are stuck there for a while, and Silver is nothing if not persistent.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Captain Flint/John Silver
Series: Inevitable [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534355
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	Mistletoe

He turns his face to the night sky and listens to the silence, reveling in the quiet that comes with the blanket of snow which covers the town square in front of him. Snowflakes land on his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. He smiles into it, enjoying the sharp, clean smell snow brings, and briefly considers sticking out his tongue to catch a few as he did as a boy. 

The frustration of being stuck here in the colonies seeps away for just a moment in this simple pleasure.

Several hundred feet away from the Newport docks, and Flint can hear nothing of the _ Walrus _, the ocean, his men as they secure the ship for the night. It is as if all of it does not exist, and Flint, in a corner of his mind, lets the fantasy take hold.

What if…?

“Why Captain. You enjoy this,” Silver says from his right. He sounds surprised.

Flint buries a flash of irritation at the interruption and opens his eyes to look at him. “I’ve not seen snow in years.” It is an answer and not an answer.

Silver makes a face. “Miserable stuff, as far as I am concerned.” Snow is collecting on his hair, highlighting his perfect curls like paint from an artist’s brush. It is cold out, well toward freezing, and the snow does not melt when it lands, except on Silver’s skin. 

The cold seeps into his boots, but Flint ignores it for now and nods. “For ships and sailing, yes.”

Silver cocks his head. “But not for you?”

“It wipes everything clean. It buries the ugliness, at least for a little while.”

Silver’s eyes flick away and he frowns, though he holds out a hand to catch a few flakes on his palm. “Well, yes. And it kills.” 

_ What an odd choice of words _, Flint thinks, and he looks closer. Silver’s lips are pressed thin and the color is high in his cheeks, as if he is embarrassed for saying such a thing.

“You speak from experience.” This has something to do with Silver’s past, Flint is sure, but he will not press other than this comment. After all, he is not ready to share his story, so why would he demand Silver share his?

Silver raises his eyes and they stare at one another. The words are on the edge of escaping, Flint feels it, but then Silver’s face shutters and he closes his fingers over the snowflakes that land on his palm. “It’s not important.”

A beat. “If you say so.”

They both turn and stand, looking over the square together, side by side, watching the snow fall. 

Flint’s gaze strays to the buildings enclosing the square. Evergreen garlands surround entryways, draping heavy and thick. Wreaths adorn most of the doors, their circular shapes accented with red ribbons and winter berries. Warm candlelight spills from many windows, creating long amber rectangles on the unbroken snow over the square. In one of the homes, someone starts playing the pianoforte, and something twists in Flint’s chest at the familiar sound. It is both phenomenally beautiful and surreal. The fact that Silver does not find beauty in this is nothing less than astounding, but he does not say so. To talk of beauty in this setting would be too personal.

The irony that Silver finds beauty in the sea, a place he claims to hate, but cannot in the scene before them is not lost on Flint.

“I want to run across it,” Silver says, breaking the silence.

Flint frowns. “What?”

Silver shrugs and huffs a laugh. The air billows out of him in a cloud like smoke, and Flint wants to try and catch it all with his fingers and breathe it in. He keeps his hands at his sides, though, and rubs his thumb over his knuckles, his rings. They are so cold, touching them stings.

“It’s too perfect. I want to run across the snow and make it less so,” Silver says.

Genuinely curious, Flint asks, “Why?”

Silver thinks a moment before he responds. “Unflawed things are temporary, so it’s best to ruin the illusion before you start to believe they will stay that way.” He turns and meets Flint’s gaze, a flicker of sadness flashing through his eyes before it’s gone, and Flint knows beyond a doubt there is meaning in his words beyond talking of the snow. 

Flint does not want to know about Silver’s past, because if he admits that he does, he admits so much more. He raises an eyebrow. “So do it.”

“Really?” Silver looks perplexed, as if he is learning something both new and complicated about Flint. 

Flint snorts. “It’s fucking _ snow _, Silver. It is meant to be temporary. Besides, it’s coming down hard enough your tracks will be covered by morning.”

Silver grins and runs forward like a child, the snow kicking up behind his booted feet. He makes his way across the square, bisecting it once, and then moves off to the right. Along the way he drags his ungloved fingers through the white, scooping some up in his palm and flinging it every which way. When he reaches the doorway of a house, however, he stops short, staring up at something in the alcove. His concentration is distinct and Flint is curious. 

He trudges through the snow to Silver’s side. “What is it?”

Silver grins. “Look up.”

Flint turns his gaze upward, but it takes him a moment to piece together what he is looking at. When he figures it out, he frowns and then looks down. 

Mistletoe.

Silver is staring at him hopefully.

Flint grits his teeth. “Good God, Silver. I am not going to kiss you out here.”

“_ Out here _,” Silver repeats. 

Flint realizes what he said and he flushes, feeling the tips of his ears go hot. A trickle of cold water slips down under his collar and he shivers. “No,” he says, not knowing right then if he means he would not kiss Silver at all or just not here. He chooses not to clarify and steps away from the alcove and from Silver. Silver’s expression falls with disappointment, and Flint turns away.

“We are expected at the inn,” he says, and walks off to leave Silver staring after him.

* * *

Flint only pauses in the main gathering room to eat a bowl of hearty, steaming stew, and sits away from the cadre of men from the _ Walrus _ who also choose to spend their coin and sleep in a warm bed, as opposed to the rest who remain on the ship. It is warm and close in the room, the heat from the hearth and the press of bodies intense and almost uncomfortable after his time outdoors. 

Flint is lost in his own head, thinking about what he logically knows he should not. Silver. Their physical encounters have been brief, and yet so charged Flint’s skin tingles at the memory of them. He is dismayed at how often his thoughts and his eyes drift to Silver, have drifted to Silver in the past weeks, seeking him out on the ship’s deck or during mealtime. And more often than not, he finds Silver looking back at him. 

Something else on his mind is that Silver has taken to touching his hand to get his attention, as if Flint’s attention is anywhere else when Silver is near. Every time Silver touches him, whether it is accidental or with purpose, Flint skin burns with it for hours. 

Flint cannot touch Silver like that. 

He cannot because he recognizes the signs of what is happening and it frightens him. 

And good God. If he kisses Silver? If he kisses him, that would be the ultimate capitulation. Flint could have sex at any time. He obviously can have it in some form with Silver. Whores are plentiful in the West Indies, even male ones if one looks hard enough, although Flint never does. But kissing is different. It is intimate, an expression of more than physical desire, at least as far as Flint is concerned. 

After a while, Billy tries to speak with him, but when Flint only grunts his responses, he looks for the others and richer conversation. 

Finishing his meal, Flint pushes the empty trencher aside and finally makes his way to the steep stairs leading to the upper floor. He resists the urge to look back over his shoulder to scan the common room one more time to search for Silver, who has not returned to the inn. Flint tries to shrug his concern off, knowing it is possible Silver went back to the ship, and Silver does not need to share his whereabouts with Flint.

Without a word to anyone, he stomps up the stairs and opens the door to his room. Shutting it behind him, he is grateful to be away from the din of the men downstairs and he lets his shoulders sag. The room is small, but warm and dry, and though Flint can hear the noise from below, it is muffled and indistinct. A cheap curtain covers a window on the other side of the room, though Flint sees it is still snowing steadily. He frowns at it, because no matter how beautiful he may find it, snow impedes his plans, and eventually his men will find a way to get in to trouble if they don't move on soon. 

After he lights one of the two small oil lamps on the bedside table, he sheds his weapons, boots and belt. With the layers gone, he feels lighter in spirit because shedding Flint, as much as he is able, is always a relief.

As he unwinds the fabric from around his waist and untucks his shirt, he rubs the back of his neck.

A light tap comes from the door, and he sighs, expecting it to be Billy with some issue that needs solving.There are always issues that need solving, it seems.

He is not surprised, however, when it is Silver’s voice he hears. 

“Captain,” Silver says through the wood. Flint frowns at the door, his heart tripping, and hesitates before he pads over barefoot to open it. 

Silver’s hair is damp, but looks as if he’s rubbed at it to get most of the moisture out. It’s full and wild and wispy like a halo around his head and Flint wants to run his fingers through it to tame it. He clenches his fists instead.

They stare wordlessly at one another for a moment before Flint steps back to let Silver in, his decision already made despite his better judgement, because he is helpless to do anything else. 

Silver quirks a half smile and slips inside, walks to the middle of the room and turns around. His hands are clasped behind his back and Flint hears as Silver shifts on his feet.

Flint shuts the door and takes a breath before he faces him, leaning back against the wood. He is tired, but his blood is pumping faster now, knowing what Silver’s presence means for the rest of his evening. 

But this is not easy. Silver is _ never _ easy. Flint resigns himself to the fact he wants Silver, wants him more than he thought possible and certainly more than what is prudent, but once the fire was ignited, there has been no stopping it, and their last encounter in Flint’s cabin proves how tenuous his hold on his control is. 

He is afraid of what he will become if he loses himself in Silver, and he absolutely thinks that is where this is headed. Flint knows himself well enough to understand that he does not desire anything or anyone halfheartedly. 

He sighs when Silver stays quiet. “Are you going to say something or just stand there?”

SIlver hears the capitulation in Flint’s voice, they both do. “Come here,” he says.

Flint’s face heats even as he straightens, but he takes a minute to admire Silver from where he stands. Silver’s taken off his coat and belt somewhere else. The lamplight warms his skin and turns it into burnished gold, and his eyes sparkle with mischief. Flint should be wary, but he is not, and raw lust curls low in his belly. He smiles, and he knows which smile it is, because he watches as Silver’s eyes widen a fraction at it. It is a feral, dangerous smile, and he does it on purpose. 

He doesn’t want to be the only one in the room off balance. 

Even as he comes forward, pulled by an invisible string, he curses his own weakness as he gives in to it. He stops a few inches away and Silver swallows, eyes still wide and perhaps a little nervous now.

“How well do you know Nordic myths?” Silver asks.

Confused at this non sequitur, Flint frowns. “What?”

“Nordic myths? No?” Silver chuckles awkwardly. Definitely nervous. Clearing his throat, he begins. “Frigga was wife to Odin, the Allfather, and mother to Baldur. Baldur was a favorite. Pretty. Brave. Always happy, and well loved by all the gods, except for Loki. Loki, jealous and full of mischief, took Frigga’s sacred plant, her mistletoe, and crafted an arrow from its boughs. He aimed well and shot Baldur in the heart, killing him. In most versions, he stays dead and Loki performs more trickery, but in others, Frigga revives her beloved son under a sprig of mistletoe. So grateful it works, she proclaims those standing under it earn both protection from death, and also a kiss.”

Silver brings his hand from behind his back and raises it high above his own head. Flint doesn’t look. He already knows what it is Silver holds.

Silver’s smile is wide, but his eyes are watchful as Flint reaches for his waist and draws him near. 

Silver licks his lips and stares at Flint’s mouth. 

“I’m impressed you know that story,” Flint murmurs. And he is. Sometimes he forgets Silver is at least partially a learned man. He can read and write, and that is more than can be said about the majority of the _ Walrus’ _ crew, but Flint honestly cannot say how much schooling Silver has had for certain. He is too mercurial to tell what it honest and what is an act.

“Are you? How impressed?” 

Flint slides his hand up Silver’s arm and pulls it to Silver’s side, and feels him shiver as his fingers slide along his palm. It is a small touch, and yet so very intimate, much more tender than any other way Flint has touched him before this moment. 

Then Flint pulls away with the mistletoe in his hand, and tosses it on top of the small bedside table next to one of the lamps. 

Silver makes a small disappointed noise and Flint’s insides twist. 

There is a moment where he hesitates, when he debates whether he should throw Silver out and end this before it burns out of control, or do what he wants to do, has wanted to do for weeks now. 

And then Silver reaches out and runs his fingers down the back of Flint’s hand until they curl around his palm. They linger, waiting, and that alone decides Flint. He turns his wrist and weaves their fingers together. They both stare down at their hands as if mesmerized. Silver’s hand is warm, his grip is sure, and when he traces his thumb over Flint’s skin, Flint shivers.

_ Oh. _

Silver stills.

“Captain?” he whispers.

Flint still hasn’t looked up yet because his eyes are locked on their hands, the way the golden tone of Silver's skin contrasts with the pale, freckled version of his own. 

“Yes?”

“Are you going to kiss me?”

This is not a simple question. This is momentous. Flint may be a brave man in many ways, but he knows one word will change everything from this moment forward. Flint looks up then, already knowing his answer, but wanting to look Silver in the eyes as he says it. “Yes.”

Silver smiles, a bright, genuine smile that lights up his eyes as Flint wastes no more time and leans in to bring their lips together. 

The first kiss is soft and gentle and Silver gasps when their lips meet. Their mouths are closed and it is merely a brush of lips, really, and even though they stand close, they only touch with their hands and their mouths. Silver makes a small noise before the second kiss follows closely behind the first. Then there is another and another and beyond that there is no point in counting anymore because Flint is kissing Silver in a way he hasn’t kissed anyone for a very long time. 

Silver steps into Flint and their hips press together, just barely, and Flint hungers. He needs. He _ wants. _

Silver’s other hand creeps up to curl in Flint’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist. They breathe each other’s breath, draw each other in through the humid air between them. Silver opens his lips, and Flint licks inside, finally, _ finally _tasting. He winds his free arm around Silver’s back and buries his fingers in Silver’s hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and tugging lightly to bring Silver’s head back. Silver moans softly, the sound reverberating in Flint’s mouth. 

Flint releases Silver’s hand to wrap an arm around his torso and pulls him even closer. Their bodies are flush now, and Flint feels Silver’s heat, the way he arches into Flint’s touch, the hard line of him against his thigh. 

It is intoxicating, the slide of their tongues as they twist together and explore, slipping over teeth and palate in a cadence that pulses through Flint’s blood, his head, his groin.

Silver melts into Flint, and Flint dominates the kiss like he dominates everything else in his world, with confidence of purpose, because as the last vestiges of his willpower drain away, he cannot help himself.

His fingers turn tighter in Silver’s hair and Silver shudders and jerks his hips forward.

They both groan and Flint pulls away to press his forehead against Silver’s. They share the warm air between them, breaths uneven and shallow.

Silver’s eyes are hooded and a little glazed. “I should have known,” he rasps, his voice ruined.

“Should have known what?” Flint asks. He presses his mouth to Silver’s temple, then to the soft place under his jaw. He flicks his tongue out to trace along the shell of Silver’s ear and Silver’s fingers dig into Flint’s chest where he still clutches his shirt.

“That you would be a fucking amazing kisser.”

Flint smiles against Silver’s neck and gives it a quick nip. Silver groans.

“Are you this good at everything?” Silver asks, breathless.

Flint pulls back to meet Silver’s foggy gaze. He lets his lips curl into a crooked smile and raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says as he slides his hand down over the curve of Silver’s arse while at the same time pulling on Silver’s hair to expose his neck further and bend Silver back.

There is a bead of sweat in the hollow between Silver’s collarbone, and Flint laps at it greedily. As he nuzzles up and along Silver’s jaw, there is a sharp rap at the door. They freeze, Silver’s breath hitching in his throat.

“Captain? Captain! You need to come quickly!” It is Billy, and his tone is urgent.

“Fuck,” Flint swears, and brings his head up. Every muscle in his body is tight with tension, and he vibrates.

Silver steps back, prudently pulling his shirt out of his trousers to hide his obvious arousal, though he cannot hide the high flush of his cheeks or his reddened, kiss-swollen lips. 

Flint wants to ignore Billy and his obligations to stay here and finish what they have started, but he cannot. His lips thin and he turns to yank open the door, his mood suddenly very, very volatile. 

Billy stands there, of course, but one look at Flint and his eyes widen in either shock or fear at his expression. He steps back and then flicks a gaze over Flint’s shoulder. His eyes widen further and he gapes like a fish.

“Uh...Sorry, Captain,” he stammers out. “I...uh…” He shakes his head sharply and focuses back on Flint, his face serious. “We’ve had some trouble down at the dock that needs your attention.”

Flint presses his lips together and he narrows his eyes. Billy is right to come and get him, but at this particular moment he wants nothing more than to punch him in the teeth. “Alright,” he bites out. “Give me a moment to get dressed and I’ll be down shortly.”

Billy looks like he wants to say something, perhaps apologize for his obvious interruption, but he thinks twice. He nods and disappears down the stairs without another glance at Silver. 

Flint feels Silver’s warmth against his side as he approaches to stand next to him. 

He turns and he and Silver lock gazes, and Flint growls, “We are not finished here.”

“No, we’re not,” Silver answers with a faint smile, and as he walks past, he traces his fingers over the back of Flint’s hand. He pauses, rising up on his toes to whisper in Flint’s ear, “Not even close.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd so if there are any glaring mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> My first ever Christmas-y fic! Yay for me. I reeeeeeallly wanted to have these guy do something a little more...erm...serious, but they just.wouldn't.cooperate. So a first kiss it is. 
> 
> As a historical note, Newport, Rhode Island was a pirate haven until the authorities cracked down and hanged 26 pirates in one day in 1723. 
> 
> I eat kudos and comments for breakfast! Thanks for reading!!


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